


A Thousand Years

by FaeryQueen07



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s no way to mark the time. Steve stops paying attention to when the song fades in and out, stops listening to anything other than the low, husky voice of the singer and the almost inaudible thumping of Tony’s heart.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Years

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self-control, clearly. The title is from Sting’s [A Thousand Years](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zn7eWTsj9wU). Beta'd by the ever-awesome [Cinnatart](cinnatart.livejournal.com)!! <3

Steve never did get the dance Peggy had promised him.

He only allows himself to really think about that once, just after he wakes up and finds everything is new, and terrifying and so different that it sometimes hurts to breathe. Then he stops thinking about that, packs away all those memories into little boxes inside his mind and resolutely ignores them while he struggles to catch up with the twenty-first century. It’s safer this that way, he tells himself.

It’s not until he’s out with Tony, Pepper, Lt. Rhodes, Thor and Jane, Natasha and her man of the hour, Clint and Darcy—and a few other people he doesn’t know the names of but who certainly think they know him—that he recalls with growing horror just how ill-prepared he is for this. Because just as he’s beginning to think that maybe everything will be okay, that he has truly left the that old, awkward version of himself behind in 1942, the blonde with the killer smile who has been making eyes at him for the last ten minutes leans in, head tilted toward the dance floor.

As she whispers her request into his ear, her hand a soul-crushing weight against his chest, Steve realizes he _still_ doesn’t know how to dance.

So he blushes, mumbles an excuse about training and needing to get up early, and flees the upscale club before she can pressure him into humiliating himself completely in front of hundreds (maximum occupancy: seventy-five) of people. He stumbles to a halt outside, the sharp breeze of New York’s blossoming autumn shocking against the damp heat of his skin. He shakes his head, then searches the street for the familiar sight of Happy and the Stark limousine. His relief when he sees them leaves him dizzy, and he has to pause before he heads in Happy’s direction.

“I think I’ll wait in the car, if that’s all right?”

Happy shakes his head. “Mr. Stark said I should go ahead and take you home. I can come back in two hours for the rest of the group.”

If Tony had indicated what had caused Steve to flee—and he must have, because Tony never lets a chance to mock Steve’s social awkwardness pass him by—Happy shows no inclination of letting on. He doesn’t insinuate anything, just opens the door, waits for Steve to tuck himself away inside, then climbs into the driver’s seat and pulls out of the parking lot. The city passes by quickly, her lights flickering through the tinted windows, taunting Steve with her untouchable beauty. The loveliest dame in all the world, Steve thinks, and he can’t even enjoy her company. Not without remembering that he has absolutely no clue what to do in situations like the one he has just escaped.

Back at headquarters—at _home_ , because Tony insisted sharing space would promote team bonding, and now that Steve has lived there for the last six months, that’s how he has come to think of it—, he strips off his suit jacket and loosens his tie. Stark tower is silent as he reaches for a bottle of Asgardian liquor Thor brings with him during every visit, and he wonders why that bothers him so much. The first sip burns all the way down and pools, warm and comforting in his gut, like a good Scotch used to. It dulls away the worst of his lingering embarrassment, and he sips his way through the rest. By his third glass, he no longer hates himself, doesn’t hate that he’s trapped in an era he’ll never understand, where everything he knows no longer applies.

Steve is just beginning to truly relax when he turns around and finds himself face-to-face with Tony.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Steve begins, but Tony just smirks.

“And stick around with your two left feet, ready to swoon the second a _dame_ suggests you take the party back to her house?” There’s fondness in Tony’s tone, and it counters the sting of his verbal dig.

Steve shrugs, downing the last of his drink. “I stood up my only date for a dance seventy years ago,” is his only reply.

“Mmm. Did you, now? I guess we’ll have to rectify that.”

Tony’s eyes are dark and dangerous as they slide up the length of Steve’s body, like he’s mentally working though some complicated Steve calculations. In all honesty, it wouldn’t be that surprising, given that Tony spends approximately ninety-seven percent of his time coding and decoding everything he can get his hands on. What _is_ surprising, is the way Tony reaches out, plucking Steve’s glass from his fingers, and depositing it onto the counter.

“JARVIS, playlist number twenty-three, song fourteen. On repeat, if you would.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The song that plays isn’t one that Steve knows (they never are, not anymore, though sometimes he thinks maybe that’s a good thing), and he isn’t sure what exactly it is he expects, but it is not this. It’s not Tony stepping into his personal space, slipping one of his hands into Steve’s own, pressing the other over Steve’s spine and piercing him with a warmth that goes bone deep and makes the blood hum in his veins.

“Let’s start slow,” Tony murmurs. “Like this.”

He pulls Steve in, like it isn’t strange to stand this close to another man, and guides him, moving Steve’s hips to the swaying rhythm of the song. It’s intimate in a way Steve has never been, not with someone else (and least of all another man), and he feels his cheeks heat each time their bodies brush. He desperately wants to pull away, but at the same time, it’s nice. Nice to have someone who can touch him without fawning, who has learned to respect him for who he is and not what he represents. So when Tony moves in closer, presses his hips flush against Steve’s, rather than pull away like his instincts are screaming to do, Steve leans into him.

“Close your eyes,” Tony whispers, the suggestion somehow understanding and suggestively filthy all at once. “It’s easier, your first time, if you just go along for the ride. Let someone with more experience do all the work.”

Steve opens his mouth to say something to that, but Tony just tuts, his fingers pressing harder, deeper, into the soft place just above the line of Steve’s trousers. They stroke him there; soothe him gently into quieting as the song loops back and starts over from the beginning once more. Halfway through, Steve relaxes enough that when Tony’s cheek comes to rest against his jaw, he doesn’t immediately jerk back. As the song begins for the third time, he lets his eyes drift close, putting all his trust into that moment.

There’s no way to mark the time. Steve stops paying attention to when the song fades in and out, stops listening to anything other than the low, husky voice of the singer and the almost inaudible thumping of Tony’s heart. He feels dazed, half-asleep and loose like he never has before, and when the music finally stops he wants to protest the ending of this moment. He opens his eyes again, and his gaze locks with Tony’s, caught in the half-concealed sadness that always seems to lurk just beneath the cutting banter and the dangerous intellect.

Tony’s gaze sweeps over his face, brows pulled together, a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth. “It must feel like a thousand years, when you’ve missed out on so much.”

“Tony,” he says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“Not—not yet. I can’t. Not yet.” But the rejection holds a promise, one that Steve doesn’t really understand but accepts anyway. He allows Tony to withdraw, watches with an ache in his heart that isn’t his own as Tony disappears up the stairs, leaving him alone.

“JARVIS, that song—”

“ _A Thousand Years_ , sir, by Sting. I can download it to your computer, if you wish.”

“Yes, please do that.”

“Very well. And if I might suggest, it is quite late. You should get some rest while you can. You have training in the morning.”

Steve nods, once, and starts down the hall toward his room. Halfway there he stops, turns to peer over his shoulder. Tony is standing in the shadows, watching him, but when he realizes he’s been caught he disappears back up the stairs. Steve closes his bedroom door quietly and leans against it, wondering just what had happened, what is different now.

“Good night, sir,” JARVIS says.

As they were meant to do, the words prompt Steve into action. There are other things to be dealt with first, obstacles to overcome, relationships to be defined. He tucks away his questions, strips out of his suit and tugs on pajamas. When he falls into bed, it is with the memory of Tony’s skin warm against his own, his pulse thrumming and more alive feeling than Steve had thought possible.

He dreams of five points searing into his spine, reshaping a future he hasn’t wanted to hope for, not until tonight.


End file.
